I draw in class. I’m not gonna lie. It helps me think and prevents me from daydreaming. However, I have encountered teachers who despise students who do anything other than taking notes. What they don’t realize is that those drawings, in a way, are my notes just as much as they are an artistic release. Strike one.
It’s not just art that’s taking a blow, but writing as well. English should be an enjoyable class filled with beautiful literature, research, and exploration. However, there have been cases of people who used to love to read and write, it was an escape from the real world for them, but due to one bad English class, that love for words was slaughtered.
A friend of mine stated that the “rigid structure of an English class killed the desire to be creative. It stopped the drive to learn.” She was someone who loved to read, anything and everything, but when school gave her guidelines of what to read and how it’s supposed to be interpreted, she learned to resent reading. She used to enjoy writing and let her mind wander, creating poems and coming up with new ideas that were shot down by the school’s tight curriculum. A part of her was cut away in order to fit the mold “education” built. Strike two.
Once upon a time, I loved to create. Stories flowed like there was no tomorrow. Pictures were designed to give life to the world that I had created. I could share my personal world with the people around me. I would build houses, dioramas, and clothing to my liking, and in the process, bring the world of my imagination into reality. Before I knew it, the school had engulfed my life. At first, it was fine, I could continue my writing and perfect it. I learned new art techniques which I then incorporated into my fictional world. Then these two worlds collided, my imagination and reality, and something beautiful happened. I felt like I had wings! I could do anything I wanted. I could be anyone I wanted. It was a wonderful freedom.
As time passed, my academics started to change. Now I had to not only focus on certain topics, but I had to focus on set views that were often provided for me. I felt like Ariel, the Little Mermaid. My voice had been stolen and I couldn't find a way to communicate with the Prince, in my case it was the people around me. Just like the original fairy-tale, it was lacking in a happy ending.
When I was young, I used to have a stack of books on my desk. I was partway through each of them and would alternate through books depending on my mood, and I went through the stack rather quickly. I had different books from different genres, ranging from the Magic Tree House to the dictionary (only made it through the A’s though, there wasn’t much of a plot). Before I knew it I was being handed books I was supposed to read for the class, but the stories were dry and uninteresting. With every new book I was given, I became more reluctant to read. There wasn’t any joy in the ink that littered the pages.
Tests on the reading material were frustrating. There would be questions about MY thoughts on a written work, but when I answered the question MY thoughts were wrong and I was supposed to have thought of certain viewpoints that were not my thoughts at all! People are diverse and will have different thoughts after reading certain articles, providing various opinions and ideas, yet these tests force students to think alike as if we were some Borg collective. A society will never grow if there is no diversity. Strike three.
At this point, I’m reluctant to write. My grade is in the teacher's hands. My views need to be linear with theirs if I have a prayer of passing the class. My thoughts cannot be my own. The vibrant colors of my imagination need to become monochrome, so everything can be nice and neat, packaged with a little bow. Papers need to focus on the facts of the past instead of the unknown the future holds. I need to agree with the teacher no matter what their beliefs are. This is suffocating.
My drawings have changed from pictures of a world I loved, to that of a world, people want to see. I now have two sketchbooks that I use when I have the motivation to draw. One contains raw feeling that is placed on paper, some are dark and grotesque while others appear light and fragile, all of which hold a heavy story. These drawings I prefer to hide from the world. The other sketchbook holds work that people can view lightheartedly and in good nature. This way people don’t truly see the death of the world I created.
The freedom I once knew and loved, found within my art, writing, and books, has been snuffed out and buried six feet under. That part of me has been violently murdered. The essence of who I was is being shaved away to fit the mold of an ideal student, whose brain is stuffed strictly with knowledge and facts that should not be questioned, instead of curiosity, creativity, and wonder. However, every once in awhile I’m permitted to fly again, with a new set of wings and I can taste the heavens once more.
Thank you, to the teachers who believed in me when no one else did. Who allowed me to test the waters of uncertainty. Who let me write and draw whatever my heart desired. You helped me see a part of me that I have lost sight of. To the teachers who not only allow students to express their opinions but encouraged it, please don’t ever stop what you are doing. Thank you for helping me find my way back to who I used to be and granting me that gift of flight that I missed.
My interest in education may have dwindled, but I want to break the system. My spirit has been damaged in ways I didn’t think were possible. Even so, I want to keep fighting for the freedom I’ve lost. I want to earn back the wings that have been torn from my broken body, leaving me grounded to this hell. I refuse to let school get in the way of my learning, my creativity, and my freedom.
